


Recessional

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another of many "how do they retire" stories. Sherlock and Mycroft and Lestrade seem to pull these out of me every so often. In this one the British Government realizes it's time to let go...and pick up a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recessional

**Author's Note:**

> The tumult and the shouting dies;  
> The Captains and the Kings depart:  
> Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,  
> An humble and a contrite heart.  
> Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,  
> Lest we forget—lest we forget!
> 
> Exerpted from "Recessional," by Rudyard Kipling

One day, over thirty years after his mentors had first pushed him forward and started him on the path to Britanic Omnipotence, Mycroft woke up knowing he couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t that he was stupider, though he had begun to note a slowing of certain skills like language acquisition. The truth was he didn’t really need to be able to pick up any of the European languages in hours, Asian languages in days, and some of the more difficult indigene languages in a month or so. There were translators for that sort of thing, after all. It wasn’t that he could no longer juggle all the elements in play at once—if anything he thought he’d grown more subtle and more aware of the human element at play in complex global affairs, whether those of espionage or of more overt affairs Foreign and Domestic. It wasn’t that he could no longer maintain his armored detachment, shaken only by Sherlock.

It was that he woke up one morning and wondered, with profound weariness, why he bothered. The truth was, control was an illusion. If it wasn’t a Sherlock breaking into Appledore and creating a catastrophic mess, it was some idiot junior official hoping to show initiative in some field she did not comprehend, or a jingoistic choice to go to war on the part of some impetuous Prime Minister. Everyone thought you could be morally pure based on good intentions and passion. Everyone, in the end, thought the ends justified the means, and no one—no one at all but Mycroft, it often seemed—was willing to weigh each mean against each end independently and in complex concert, time and time again, asking each time if the blood one would carry on one’s hands was in any sense redeemed by the blood that had not been spilled recklessly on the thirsty soil.

He’d once felt sure that at least if he were where he was, making the decisions he made, the gallons of blood that had stained his soul would be washed clean by the barrels of blood that stained no one’s soul at all.

And then he woke up and found he still believed that, but that he could no longer care.

No. He could care. Just not properly.

He knew because he lay in his bed and the tears flowed silently and steadily and he couldn’t shut them off. He sat up in bed and wiped them with a tissue, dragging crusted sleepers from his lashes and the corners of his eyes. He noted that the outer corner of one eye was sore, and realized he’d been damp-eyed for months, until the skin had become chapped and red.

He reached for his phone and called Anthea. “Cancel my appointments for today. Delegate tasks according to standard Code Green protocols. I’m taking the day off. Possibly the week.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

He considered a range of responses, including the ever-popular lie-outright. He decided he preferred honesty within tight boundaries. “Today? No. I find I’m tired, today. It’s been some time since I gave myself a rest, though, and I’m determined to see if I feel better with a bit of time away from the office.”

“Are you on call, sir?”

“Yes, but using the immortal grading system my brother employs—nothing lower than a seven, my dear? Please? Don’t pull me out of the tub for anything less than a Code Yellow global alert transitioning to Red, or a Code Red domestic outright.”

“Very good, sir,” she said, then said, politely, “Should I discuss this with Lady Smallwood?”

He considered. There were times when allowing a subordinate to pass the word up the line discreetly did everyone a world of good. Anthea would earn brownie points from Lady Smallwood for having appeared to put the nation above her boss and to have trusted Lady Smallwood over a rogue faction. Lady Smallwood would be given critical information she ought to have on the state of her British Government. Mycroft might have to field difficulty on the part of his superior, but he’d have the advantage of Anthea being trusted, and could use her to pass misinformation when it suited him, as well as information.

All in all, he concluded, it was to everyone’s advantage thatAnthea report, and appear to report without Mycroft’s awareness.

“Yes, my dear. Do be sure to tell her it’s confidential, and that you’ve been quite subtle in dealing with me, won’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

Mycroft nodded, then lay back in bed, on his side this time. There was still a slow, passionless leak of tears. Not enough to flood him, but enough to ooze delicately out in a steady seep. He pulled a handful of tissues from his bedside table. Then he drew the blankets up high over one shoulder and partially over his head, and plummeted effortlessly back into sleep. It was like rowing a canoe, he thought, remembering his uni days on the Isis. His body remembered the deep muscle knowledge—stroke deep, with back and shoulders and arms and thighs all at work. Feather to straighten the course. Change sides regularly to stay fresh and rested. He could recall the long, satin glide over the endless flow of the waters below. Hard going up stream—effortless going down, when you could almost give all your attention to placement, not propulsion.

The Isis on a spring day, he dreamed, hearing the murmur of the river, the sough of the wind in the bulrushes, the sound of swallows hunting midges over the river, and the high peep of their chicks in the nests below the bridges… He dreamed, and dreaming he dreamed of drowning, the gold-green waters closing over him as he looked up through the amber glow.

He woke panting, eyes still wet. He wiped his eyes.

He spent the week away, and at the end called Anthea, saying he would take another. That afternoon Lady Smallwood called on him.

“Are you well, Mycroft?” Her voice was calm, concerned, posh—more posh that Mycroft’s own natural speech. He was of a good County family, but had not grown up surrounded by those pure, perfect RP tones.

He considered his answer, then said, “In truth, my Lady, I think the day has come when I must tender my resignation.”

She frowned. “That would be a great loss, I must say. The government has grown to depend on you.”

“Not so much as you might think, my lady,” he said. “I’ve prepared for this day. It would have been no service to the nation to leave it dependent when the day would come that I would retire or die or be rendered incompetent by time or illness or injury—or mere breaks in lines of communication. No: I’ve built the system to function without me. I’m truly only most useful at the highest levels for the most occult of decisions, and I have trained people to follow in my footsteps.”

“You are not ill, or injured or cut off from communication, though, Mycroft. Surely…”

He raised a hand and cut her off. “Ah, but I am injured,” he said. “I find I have reached my end point.” He poured her out a second cup of tea and passed the shortbread biscuits with their raspberry jam filling. “I have been at this for over thirty years, my lady, and for much of that time it has been a joy—the very breath of life to me. But even a great horse loses its wind in time. I am…tired.”

She sipped her tea, silent and thinking. Only when she was done, and had wiped the powdered sugar from the biscuits from her fingertips did she say, “Very well. You will remain as a consulting resource, yes?”

He considered, and nodded. “Yes. I can do no less for my nation, ma’am. But use me wisely. Don’t waste me upon things my protégés should be left to handle themselves.”

She smiled and rose. In another age she would have pulled on white gloves and pinned on a feathered hat. Instead she collected her handbag and her briefcase and settled the straps for each over her shoulder. “Very well. As you say, it’s no service to the nation to spare the young their necessary experience. Expect some reward for your years of service, Mr. Holmes.”

“No, no,” he said. “I have resources, as I always have. The family is not poor.”

“Leave this to your debtors,” she said, tartly. “It does not do at all to allow bureaucracy to think brilliance should be given freely and without reward, Mr. Holmes: not all geniuses can be so generous as you, and parsimony when it comes to genius is never a good habit to get into.”

He could not argue, but protested as he took her to the door that he would appreciate it if she ensured the government’s gratitude was wise and suited to a man of quiet ways and few great needs.

She smiled, shook his hand, and left.

He reached into his pocket, then, and drew out the tissues. The sore spot at the corner of his eye was raw, he thought. He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, seeing the pink and sticky surface at the very outermost edge.

He would not need to leave his flat on Pall Mall, he thought. And there was always Holmescroft in the country. And he could get a pet—a cat or dog. Or both, even, if it suited him.

Anthea called in a state. “You’ve done it now, boss. You should have told me. I’d have restructured things for you—given you more time. Lightened the load.”

He assured her that her efforts would have been in vain. “It’s time, my dear. Be on the lookout. I’ve sent around my recommendations to Lady S, and highly recommended you for several openings more challenging than watching out after me.”

“Nothing will ever match working with you, sir,” she said, sounding depressed. “It’s been a privilege.”

“I doubt that,” he said, smiling in spite of his objections. It was good to think she’d enjoyed her years as his right hand. “Just—keep in touch. I’ve told Lady S to use me as a consulting, quite like Sherlock in my own little way. Wherever you’re assigned, feel free to call in old favors. You’ve done me quite a few over the years, and I’d prefer to pay back in kind.”

He told Mummy and Father. Then, reluctantly, he told Sherlock and Lestrade. Both men had been entangled in his own professional life for too long not to be affected by his resignation.

Sherlock, not surprisingly, was furious, dismayed, contemptuous, dismissive. “Consulting?” he roared, “Consulting? You? It’s not enough you’ve near brought the nation to its knees over the past decades without spreading your influence further, into your waning years?”

Mycroft allowed him exactly fifteen minutes of insults over the phone, then hung up. Fifteen minutes, in his opinion, was actually quite generous, considering how low he felt by the end of it. It is no small thing when one’s own brother and nearest possible peer assesses your lifetime work as a catastrophe for all concerned.

But, then, that was Sherlock for you. Only fools applied to Sherlock for approval. Even John Watson received more abuse than praise from Mycroft’s brother, and almost anyone else was lucky to be praised by the faintness of Sherlock’s damns—rather like poor Lestrade, whose entire reputation as a saint and a brilliant man rested on the fact that even Sherlock could find no worse insult for him than “plodder” when attempting an honest assessment rather than indulging in hyperbolic invective.

Lestrade said, quietly, “Going to be leaving London, then?”

“No. Spending less time here, perhaps. It puts temptation out of my reach, to a degree—though in these days of mobile phones and email I can’t say that a place in the country is much of a fortress. Mainly, though, I’m going to disengage.”

“I should follow suit.”

‘You?” Mycroft considered, then said, firmly, “No. I shall believe it when I see it. You’ll die in harness, if you can arrange it. You’re DCI now. You’ll either go higher, or you’ll teach, or you’ll go private and consult, or you may give your last years to specializing—but you won’t ever really free yourself from the rattling coach that is London and its needs.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Lestrade said. “Can I take you out for a round to celebrate?”

Mycroft nearly refused reflexively…one did not socialize with subordinates. Then it occurred with shock and pain that Lestrade was no longer a subordinate: soon he’d be gone from Mycroft’s life entirely, as his professional life flowed on like the Thames, and Mycroft was left behind on the quiet bank where he’d chosen to come to shore.

“I’d like that,” he said. “In fact—let’s make a night of it. A round to celebrate, and then perhaps dinner someplace? My treat.”

“Not much of a celebration for you if you pay,” Lestrade grumbled. “Hell, and I daresay you’re not allowing them to retire you with a party and a gold pocket watch and speeches.”

“Over my dead body,” Mycroft snapped, adding contemplatively, “Though a well-selected pocket watch would not be taken amiss if they really wanted to please me. Perhaps I can get Anthea to drop the hint to Lady S. The dratted woman insists I must be rewarded somehow, and there are some very nice artisans out there whom even I would hesitate to commission without careful scrutiny of my finances. Not to mention the ever-expensive collectible watches… In any case, if you are concerned you can pick up the costs at the pub and I’ll pick up dinner.”

“And I’ll be out the cost of a couple of shots of scotch and a pint or two, and you’ll be out the cost of lobster and veal at someplace with big plates and tiny servings.”

“I assure you, I’ll choose someplace comforting and generous in their portions,” Mycroft said. “I’m retiring. Time to choose my pleasures with discretion but some gusto.”

They had dark ale at the pub. At Mycroft’s favorite little chop house Lestrade ordered saddle of mutton with garlic potato mash and Mycroft had the special of the day, a highly unexpected turkey thigh with lingonberry sauce and baked winter squash. Lestrade ordered apple pie, and Mycroft indulged in the chocolate mousse, which was so dense you could have sliced it, and so satiny and supple it melted on his tongue.

“I’ll miss you,” Lestrade said, sounding a little surprised and flatteringly melancholy. “You’re a good bloke, Mycroft Holmes. Just so you know—great _and_ good.” He fished in his pocket, looking abashed. “I—this isn’t good, you know. It’s nothing expensive, really. Old, mainly. And pretty. But I thought of it when I was trying to figure what to get for you, and it's a better present than any of the tie tacks or fountain pens or Rolex watches they want a bloke like me to buy for a bloke like you when you retire. I figure at least if Lady S does get you that watch you’re having Anthea point her at, this might go with, yeah?” He handed a little packet across the table. It was obviously wrapped at home, and by a man none too skilled in the art of present wrapping. It was a flat wad of paper held together with sellotape.

Mycroft picked it up, fingers already assessing the knobby contents and coming up with guesses. He risked a smile. “An old piece, yes?”

“Great-grandfather’s,” Lestrade said. “His fancy-dress one, according to family legend.”

Mycroft picked and tugged and ripped until he found his way through the sellotape. He shook out the contents, and hummed his appreciation. “The chain is magnificent.” It was—rose gold in a fancy, ornate link that looked baroque, with a t-bar for the vest buttonhole and a long hanging chain for a fob. The fob itself, though, was special, and Mycroft cradled it in his hand, carrying the tangle of chain to one side in his other hand. He hummed softly, then sang _shī_ (獅)in a high and proper Mandarin first tone. “A Chinese guard dog.” He stroked the richly colored carnelian bead. “Is this original—I mean, part of your great-grandfather’s set?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, with a smile. “He was a merchant marine. Rose high—ended up a captain. Did a lot in and out of Hong Kong.”

“it’s beautiful,” Mycroft said.

“They’re guardians,” Lestrade said. “Protect you. I figured—a guard dog to take care of the best guard dog.”

Mycroft risked a smile, flattered beyond words. “That’s…very kind of you,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want it for your own family?”

“What family?”

“You’re still young. You could marry again.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Not something I’m planning on. Not sure what I’d choose at this point anyway. Don’t want to marry a young woman just to have kids, though. So there you are. Who better to give it to than you, yeah?” He leaned back in his chair and sipped the final glass of port they’d ordered to go along with the coffee. “Mycroft, really. I’m going to miss you. I wish to hell you’d reconsider.”

“I won’t be far off,” Mycroft found himself saying. “As close as Baker Street. Closer. And you’re less likely to be served body parts with your tea. You can come visit.”

Lestrade thought about it, then nodded. “I think I will, then. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, and was surprised to find he meant it. Cautiously, afraid of overstating and saddling himself with a goldfish, he said, “It’s been good to work with you, too. You are one of very few I have trusted as I trust myself. You’ve never let me down.”

And again, he was surprised to realize, thinking back, that this was true. Not a goldfish, then. Something smarter than a gold fish. He smiled and looked at the watch fob again. “You are a good guardian dog yourself,” he said.

Later that week, browsing the estate pieces in a jewelry shop on Bond street, he found a little cloisonné statue of a turquoise blue foo dog. On a whim he bought it and had it packaged and sent around to Lestrade with a card, “From one faithful guardian to another.”

They went out often after that. Lestrade picked Mycroft’s mind, seeking less erratic help than Sherlock provided. They discussed shared interests, and even more they explained unshared interests to each other. Lestrade learned about impressionist painting and fine tailoring and gardening. Mycroft learned how to watch a football game in a pub intelligently, so that in the end he fit in with the regulars at Lestrade’s pub, shouting for a good goal and howling when the referees misinterpreted the rule book. He learned about smoky little clubs where musicians of all types fought with their instruments to produce smoky little masterpieces. He learned about walking in London at night, side by side with a former beat cop who knew how to keep them safe and see the beauty of the city.

They kissed for the first time under a streetlight in Chelsea, near the Bluebird restaurant.

They slept together for the first time at Holmescroft, in Mycroft’s old-fashioned poster bed, between cold linen sheets that slowly warmed to their touch as they twined together.

Two years later they lived together, and Mycroft went for walks in the morning with his shih tzu dog and his fellow guardian—two men defending their city and their nation. A ginger cat waited for them at home, defending the hearth.

“It won’t last forever,” Mycroft said, feeling obliged to warn Lestrade. “All lives end.”

Lestrade gave him a reproving look, and said, “All the more reason to live it while you’ve got it, love.”

Mycroft, retired, found he agreed.

Mycroft’s eyes stopped their constant seep. The sore at the corner of his eye slowly left. He knew it was just that he was doing better—not crying any more. But he swore that Lestrade had kissed it away, morning after morning planting a little kiss where there had once been tears.


End file.
